“That’s nice,” I mumble, although it doesn’t feel nice to me. No, it’s making my stomach gurgle, my insides clenching and doing horrible things.
“It was… wow.” Bethany lets out a squeal as I finish ringing up Mrs. McKleski’s groceries and take her money. The woman shops here every single day. Today’s purchase? Chocolate cream pie ingredients. “We stood around all day but it was so worth it! Serena came out to see us. She was so nice, oh my god… I expected her to be super bitchy, you know, because people talk, but she took pictures and was joking around!”
“That’s nice,” I say again—and once more, it doesn’t feel that way. I’m feeling a bit sick in the stomach about it all, as absurd as that is. “I’m glad she made your trip worthwhile.”
“Oh, it wasn’t her—it was totally him,” she says. “We found Johnny Cunning coming out of some bar later. He actually talked to us. Oh my god, he was nicer than I expected him to be, and talk about dreamy!”
Bethany shoves her phone in my face, forcing me to look at the screen, at a picture she took of the two of them, a cheap hole-in-the-wall bar visible in the background. I can tell he’d been trying to go unnoticed, but he smiles for the camera. It doesn’t look like he’s drunk, but well… he’s at a bar.
“He asked where I was from,” she says, “and he laughed when I told him they tell stories about him here. He wanted to know what people say, so I told him about the naked one, you know, at the park? You know that story, right?”
“Vaguely,” I mumble.
“Well, get this! Not only is it true, he really got arrested, but he said he’d been there with a girl! Can you believe that?”
I give Mrs. McKleski her change and offer her a smile when I see the knowing look in her eyes. She says nothing—thank god—as she leaves. There are a few people in town to which these aren’t just stories… they’re memories. It was only a few years ago, but life moves on. Bethany would’ve been just a kid when these things happened, not old enough to know anything about the troubled son of a politician. She only knows the actor he came to be, the one who has nothing to do with his family.
“That’s nice,” I say for the third time, and this time I know, without a doubt, I don’t mean it. There’s nothing nice about how I’m feeling. “You’re already thirty minutes late, so I need you to clock in.”
Flustered, she rambles out an apology, but I jet away without listening to it. I find a quiet place to hide in the stockroom in the back, sitting down on a box and lowering my head, taking deep breaths to ease the turmoil brewing inside of me.
Too close for comfort.
I do a few things, not much, before telling Marcus I’m leaving. He laughs, waving me off. “Good, you’re not even supposed to be here.”
I head to the front of the store, where Bethany is finally working her register.
“I’m glad you had a good trip,” I tell her, genuinely meaning that. “I’m glad he didn’t disappoint you.”
With that, I leave.
I drive to my father’s house, parking my car in his driveway. He’s on the couch in front of the television, snuggling up with my half-asleep daughter, and I groan when I realize what they’re watching.
Breezeo: Transparent
“Seriously? What happened to Saturday morning cartoons?”
“That hasn’t been a thing in a while,” my father says. “But this was on, and she wanted to watch it.”
It’s the first movie. I’ve seen it before. It’s impossible to have not seen it, since cable plays it on regular rotation these days. It’s where he learns to adapt, an illness triggering something in his DNA that makes him fade away. Invisibility. He becomes the wind. He earns his name because he’s like a soft breeze. You know he’s around, you can feel him ghosting across your skin, but unless he shows himself to you, you can’t see him, looking right through him like he’s not even there. I know, it sounds like some crazy sci-fi nonsense, but it’s more of a coming of age story, more of a love story. It’s about selflessness, about sacrificing your own happiness for others, about being there for them even when they don’t know you’re around.
“You’ve got mail on the kitchen table,” my father says before I start spiraling. “Don’t forget to grab it.”
Strolling into the kitchen, I snatch up the small stack of mail, mostly junk leftover from me never changing my address after I moved out ages ago. I sort through it, throwing the junk away, and stall when I reach the last envelope. It’s not unusual. I’ve seen dozens like it. But every time one shows up, it makes me hesitate, my gaze flickering along the return address, to the name.
Cunningham c/o Caldwell Talents
I don’t open the envelope, although I used to out of curiosity. Every single time a check would be inside, the amounts steadily increasing.
“You going to cash that one?” my father asks, stepping into the kitchen behind me.
I cut my eyes at him, tossing it straight into the trashcan. “I don’t need his money.”
“I know, but what you should do is save the checks and cash them all at once. Wipe out his account. Then go riding off into the sunset in your brand new Ferrari.”
“I don’t want a Ferrari.”
“I do,” he says. “You could buy me one.”
“Nice try, but no. Although, I might be able to squeeze enough out of my next check to buy you the Hot Wheels version. Hey, I’ve gotten enough overtime this week you might get two.”
“Well, you know, if you wouldn’t throw away that check, you wouldn’t need to work overtime.”
“I’m not interested in taking a payoff.”
“That’s not what it is.”
“That’s sure what it feels like,” I say. “He can’t even be bothered to send the checks himself, you know. His manager does it all. It’s hush-money.”
“Oh, cut him some slack.”
“Cut him some slack?” I look at my father with disbelief. “You’ve never even liked him.”
“But he’s Madison’s father.”
I roll my eyes. It’s probably childish, but if there’s ever a reason to roll my eyes, this moment is it. “Yeah, well, somebody ought to tell him that.”
“He knows. Hell, you’ve got the check right there to prove it. And I know, I know, before you say but his manager sends those, I’ll point out that he’s shown up here a few times to see her.”
“Drunk,” I say. “He was drunk every single time. Half the time he was so high that I doubt he remembers coming. I’m sorry, but I don’t hand out participation trophies to addicts who don’t make an effort to get clean. I’ll cut him some slack when he gives me a reason.”
He lets out a long, dramatic sigh and says nothing for a moment, like he’s figuring out how to reframe his argument.
“You can cash it, if you want,” I say, pulling the check back out of the trashcan and setting it on the table. “I mean, we still owe you from that one time.”
“It’s not about the money. Not even about him.”
“Then what is it?”
“Madison’s growing up, and you…”
“What about me?”